Fallout
by paperstorm
Summary: Sam hates it when Dean's mad at him, and he snaps and starts talking again even though it feels uncannily like digging his own grave. A tag for 'Asylum', 1x10. Part of my Delete Scenes series. Implied past Wincest.


**Contains dialogue from the episode 'Asylum', it belongs to Eric Kripke and Richard Hatem.  
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**Part of my Deleted Scenes series. Full list of fics in reading order available on my profile page :)**

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><p>"I told you I looked everywhere, I didn't find a hidden room," Sam starts, spreading his arms out a little to portray his annoyance at the fact that Dean won't take him at his word.<p>

He's really ridiculously arrogant sometimes, always thinks he knows best no matter what anyone else says. And he does this all the time; redoing something Sam's already done because he thinks poor, incompetent little Sammy couldn't _possibly_ have done it right the first time. Sometimes Sam's not even sure why his brother came to get him from Stanford in the first place – Dean clearly doesn't need him for anything other than having someone there to boss around. Like Sam's an idiot, like he doesn't know how to operate on a hunt without his _big brother_ looking over his shoulder and controlling his every move like Sam's a marionette. It's frustrating and insulting and Sam's beyond tired of it.

"Well, that's why they call it hidden," Dean drawls in that smarmy, sarcastic way of his. There's a faint whistling noise, like wind through a narrow space, and Dean hears it and looks around sharply like he's freakin' Frank Hardy or something. "You hear that?"

Sam just barely resists rolling his eyes. "What?"

Dean steps over to the far wall and crouches down, feeling around the baseboards for air. "There's a door here," he says, looking up at it, and that's just _it_. No way in hell is Sam going to let him find the room and find Ellicott's body and save those moronic kids and be the big hero while Sam just stands in the background and gets overlooked. _Again_.

Add that to the sting of rejection Sam still feels, the constant ache in his chest whenever he looks at Dean and remembers everything they used to have and everything they could have now if only Dean wanted it like Sam does; and Sam's had way more than he can handle already from his asshole of a brother. Sam isn't a doormat and he isn't useless – he's worth more than just being Dean's lackey. And he's a catch; Dean _should_ want him back but he doesn't and Sam's never realized it until now, but that makes him so irrationally angry he can't see straight. So what, he went off to school and Dean spent the years whoring himself out to any bit of filth that would have him and now Sam's not good enough for him anymore? Fuck that. This is ending _now_.

He lifts his shotgun up and points it forward. "Dean."

Dean looks up, his eyes widening in surprise when he notices the gun, like he's actually shocked that this is happening, and really? He's _really_ gonna pretend to be all surprised that Sam's mad, that Sam doesn't worship the ground Dean Winchester fucking walks on? Sam's so pissed off his nose starts to bleed, and he wipes at it with the back of his hand.

"Step back from the door."

"Sam, put the gun down," Dean says quietly.

"Is that an order?" Sam challenges.

"It's more of a friendly request," Dean replies with a tiny little smirk on his lips and _god_, Sam could just punch in his stupid, self-righteous face.

"Cause I'm gettin' pretty tired of taking your orders," he continues roughly.

Dean huffs humorlessly. "I knew it. Ellicott did something to you, didn't he?"

"For once in your life, just shut your mouth," Sam chews out.

"What're you gonna do, Sam?" Dean snaps. "The gun's filled with rock salt, it's not gonna kill me!"

He's barely finished his sentence when Sam pulls the trigger. The shell bursts and a hundred tiny pellets hit Dean square in the chest – he's thrown backwards violently through the thin wall and lands in the dusty room with a sickeningly satisfying thud. It's like redemption; it's like the end of Rocky. Sam finally gets the chance to put Dean in his place and even though he's still mad, it feels _fantastic._

Sam grins. "No. But it'll hurt like hell."

For a few seconds, Dean doesn't move – he must've hit his head on the cement floor when he fell – but then he splutters awake, coughing and moaning in pain. "Sam, we gotta burn Ellicott's bones and then all this'll be over. And you'll be back to normal."

"I am normal." Sam narrows his eyes and looms over Dean's body. He's so angry he's practically shaking, rage coursing like fire through every vein in his body. "I'm just telling the truth for the first time. I mean, why are we even here? 'Cause you're following Dad's orders like a good little soldier?" he mocks cruelly. "'Cause you always do what he says without question? Are you _that_ desperate for his approval?"

Pitiful, that's what it is. That's what _Dean_ is. Sam can't believe he used to look up to him, he can't believe he used to have _feelings_ for him; actual, real, my-heart-belongs-to-you _feelings_.

"This isn't you talking, Sam," Dean groans breathlessly.

"That's the difference between you and me," Sam spits. "I have a mind of my own, I'm not pathetic like you!"

"So what're you gonna do, huh?" Dean argues. "You gonna kill me?"

"You know what, I am sick of doing what you tell me to do. We're no closer to finding Dad today than we were six months ago!"

"Well then here, let me make it easier for you." Dean pulls his .45 out of his jacket pocket and holds it up. "Come on, take it. Real bullets are gonna work a hell of a lot better than rock salt. Take it!"

Sam grabs the gun from him before his brain has even registered what it told his arm to do. It's like his head isn't even calling the shots anymore and that should be terrifying but it's sort of liberating; just doing whatever his body wants to on instinct. He's a million degrees on the inside, burning up from within with fury and with the suddenly very real possibility of how much better his life could be without Dean. He could do it; he could actually shoot his brother. Right here, right now, and no one would ever have to know. Sam could go on with the rest of his life, he could go back to school, meet someone else, someone who actually appreciates him, settle down like he's always wanted to. He could live the rest of his days out from under Dean's shadow – he could finally get away from all these thoughts in his head of Dean's smile and Dean's eyes and Dean's protecting hands and Dean's pale skin glistening in the moonlight.

"You hate me that much?" Dean mumbles brokenly. "You think you could kill your own brother? Well then go ahead. Pull the trigger. Do it!" he shouts, just as Sam does, but nothing happens.

He presses his finger into the little metal switch over and over again but the gun doesn't go off, and then the next thing he knows, Dean's grabbing his arm and punching him in the jaw and taking him down. Sam hits the ground hard, pain blooms over his whole body and his cheek throbs where Dean's fist made contact.

Dean gets up off the ground slowly and actually laughs a little. "Man, I'm not gonna give you a loaded pistol!" he pronounces emphatically, his voice thick with rough Kansas twang, and then he swings again and everything goes dark.

Sam feels awful. He feels like dirt – lower than dirt. He feels like the worst person in the world for the things he said to Dean, and for shooting him. God, he actually _shot_ his brother. With a gun. Dean's okay, it was just rock salt so the worst it'll do is leave a bad bruise, but even still. Sam pointed a gun at his brother, his best friend, his _everything_, and he pulled the trigger. He wasn't in his right mind, he was possessed or whatever, but that can't erase what he did. And things were going so _good_, too. Before this hunt, they were getting along better, they were communicating better, they were working as a team on hunts, they were fighting less and smiling more; things were actually starting to feel like they did before when Dean was Sam's whole world and he wouldn't have had it any other way. And in the span of about three minutes, Sam messed it all up.

The part that hurts the most? Is that up until now, Sam had actually been allowing himself to be cautiously optimistic that everything could maybe work out between him and Dean. That eventually they'd somehow manage to put aside all the distance between them, all the miles and broken hearts and misunderstandings and the blistered burns from fire, and be _them_ again. For a long time, Sam was so slashed up on the inside over Jessica that he couldn't even let himself think about Dean that way, but more and more lately all the holes in his chest have been scabbing over and now he can't _not_ think about it. Especially after the night they shared a bed for the second time in only a few weeks. When Sam closes his eyes, he can still feel the heat of Dean's body next to his. It was a few days ago now that they woke up together after falling asleep watching a movie (or, that was Sam's story, anyway) but Sam can feel it tingling on his skin like Dean's still there, pressed up against him.

Dean had been asleep when Sam climbed into bed with him, and although he'd been a little worried Dean would be annoyed the next day, it was just the opposite. By the time Sam woke up the next morning he was snuggled into Dean's chest, one leg nestled in between Dean's and his head tucked under Dean's chin, and Dean's arms were wrapped loosely around him; one hand was even tangled in Sam's hair. At first Dean was still asleep, but he roused slowly when Sam did and even though they were both awake and they both knew it, Dean didn't pull back right away like Sam expected him to. For a while he just laid there holding Sam, probably basking in that warm place between sleeping and not like Sam was. At one point, he almost-sort-of nuzzled into Sam's hair. And then he gave Sam a little squeeze before he got up, sending a soft, fond smile in Sam's direction as he disappeared into the bathroom and started up the shower.

Sam thinks it's the best night's sleep he's had in years. And Dean, too, had looked rested and relaxed – happy, even. Comparing that to the look on his face now makes Sam ache.

"Hey Dean, I'm sorry man," Sam starts softly, even though he knows mere words could never be enough to make up for what happened. "I … I said some awful things back there."

Dean quirks an eyebrow. "You remember all that?"

"Yeah," Sam admits, squirming internally as his brother stares him down. "It was like I couldn't control it, but I didn't mean it. Any of it."

"You didn't, huh?" Dean looks a little sad and completely skeptical, and that breaks Sam's heart a little bit more.

"No, of course not," he insists. "Do we need to talk about this?"

"No. I'm not really in the sharing and caring kind of mood," Dean answers flatly, swinging his bag off his shoulder and tossing it into the back seat of the Impala. "I just wanna get some sleep."

He gets into the car and slams the door shut, and Sam flinches and then sighs. He'd been hoping they could just stick with the excuse that he had no control over what he'd said to Dean, but clearly Dean's upset about it anyway which means they _are_ going to have to talk about it whether Dean wants to or not. Problem is, Sam has no idea what to say. There's really nothing he _can_ say. Not this time.

"Sam!" Dean snaps from inside the car, and Sam startles a little and then shakes his head at himself and gets into the Impala beside his brother.

Dean sort of rolls his eyes and mutters something Sam doesn't catch, pressing abruptly on the accelerator and the tires squeal on the pavement as he peels away from the asylum. They drive in tension thick silence for maybe five minutes before Sam can't take it anymore. He hates it when Dean's mad at him, when he feels like he's let his brother down, and he snaps and starts talking again even though it feels uncannily like digging his own grave.

"I swear I didn't mean it, you gotta believe me." The words tumble out of his mouth and Dean looks thunderous but Sam can't stop. "Whatever he did to me, when he shocked me or whatever it was, all of a sudden there were all these things in my head and they just came out of my mouth before I even had a chance to stop them. I couldn't even try, Dean, it was like someone else was pulling the strings."

"Okay, sure," Dean grumbles. "Don't bother, alright? You don't have to say anything. I'm fine, we're fine."

"No we aren't," Sam argues. "You're mad at me and you're hurt and I get it, I said really shitty stuff and I'm so sorry, but Dean you have to know it wasn't me."

"Yeah, actually, it was you!" Dean explodes. "That's the thing, when someone gets possessed? A demon takes over their body and controls them from the inside, when you talk to them you're talking to the demon, not the person! But that's not what happened here! Ellicott didn't posses you, he just pissed you off and left you to take it out on me! All that stuff you said, he didn't make any of that up out of thin air! That was stuff that was already _there_, inside you, he just made you say it out loud! You weren't a different person, Sam, you were just _you_ with the volume turned up!"

"With the volume turned _way_ up! Turned up to homicidal levels, remember?" Sam protests. "That cop, he loved his wife and he killed her after Ellicott got to him! That's more than just a little pissed off, Dean! That's like – I don't even know what it is! But he couldn't help it and neither could I!"

Dean just shrugs half-heartedly. "At least I know how you really feel now, right? I guess that's something."

"Dean, c'mon," Sam pleads. "Nobody's perfect, okay? I mean, yeah, sometimes you annoy me, but everyone does things that bug the people in their lives! It doesn't mean I don't care about you! Be honest, if our positions had been switched, would you've had _nothing_ but good things to say about me? You really expect me to believe there isn't a thing or two you'd like to yell at me if you got the chance?"

"Sam."

"No!" Sam interrupts. "Come on, tell me! What would you've said if he got to you first? That I'm too soft? That I'm a pain, that I can be bitchy sometimes? Or no, I know, that I betrayed you by leaving, right? That you sacrificed everything to make me happy and keep me safe and I just abandoned you to go off and have a perfect, normal little life without you in it?"

Dean glares at him from across the seat but he doesn't answer, even though really, the look in his eyes is all the answer Sam needs anyway. When Sam continues, his voice breaks a little.

"I get why you're upset, because it would really hurt if you said all those things to me. But I would understand, Dean. I wouldn't just assume it means you hate me."

"All I know is I handed you a gun you thought was loaded and you pulled the trigger. You barely even flinched." Dean's voice is quieter now, sadder, and it's so much worse than if he were yelling. "If I hadn't taken the clip out I'd be dead, so you know what, excuse me if I'm not in a particularly forgiving mood right now."

Sam's heart sinks into his stomach; his whole body slumps in the seat and his eyes burn with tears completely beyond his control. He really didn't think it was possible to feel worse than he did before, but Dean just proved him wrong. "That's not fair," he whispers. "I would never hurt you if I was in my right mind, you know that."

"I _thought_ I knew that," Dean mutters. "Hell, I thought I knew _you_, but apparently I was wrong. Apparently you've been walking around for years resenting me, thinking I don't have a mind of my own, thinking I'm _pathetic_. All Ellicott really did was finally give you the balls to tell me the truth, so. I'm not sure how you want me to just be okay with that, with finding out what you really think about me. Especially since …"

He trails off and Sam's head snaps up to look at him. "Especially since what?"

Dean shakes his head shortly, his face clouding over again. "Nothing. Forget it."

"Dean …" Sam's so close to begging now _he's_ the one who's being pathetic, but he doesn't care.

"Just let it go, Sam," Dean says quietly. "I'm beat, we were up all god damn night, and I just wanna find a motel and crash, okay?"

There's a black pool of dread in the pit of Sam's stomach, his heart is beating into his throat but he doesn't say anything else. He probably couldn't manage to get the words out now even if he had any clue what to say – not with the way his guts are all twisting around each other and he's hot and itchy and about thirty seconds away from dissolving into tears. Dean has to understand, he just has to, but how can he if he won't even listen to Sam's explanation? Sam didn't mean any of the things he said, he doesn't hate Dean. Not even a little bit, he … he might love Dean. As much as he's spent the last few months resisting it, he might have fallen in love with his brother all over again. Or maybe not again; maybe _still_. Maybe it never really went away, maybe it never can. And maybe Sam doesn't want it to.

And maybe Sam just fired a double-ought shell packed with rock salt right through whatever chance they still had.


End file.
